


The Opposite of Precision

by kaalee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-25
Updated: 2007-11-24
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaalee/pseuds/kaalee
Summary: [Seamus/Dean]Seamus can't stop looking.  Not when they're together in the locker room.  Does Dean have the same problem?





	1. [no title]

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This image came to me on a run one morning, after I hadn't written in a long while. I stole moments between packing the classroom to write this up. It will be two short chapters. Enjoy! ♥

**The Opposite of Precision  
seamus/dean, pg13, ~530 words**

  
  
  
He can't stop.  
  
He can't stop _looking_.  
  
It's Dean's fault, truth be told, that they started this idiotic exercise regimen in the first place. The activity of their adolescence had been replaced by drone-like desk jobs and the pub held a high draw every night while they sought deeper and more creative ways of fighting importance.  
  
When Dean realised he'd put on nearly a stone since leaving school, he'd dragged Seamus into a mad routine (kicking and screaming, no less) of weight lifting, wrestling, running every alternate day, not to mention the hills and stretching and something Seamus still can't remember except to call it yogurt.  
  
The first time Dean began to pull his shirt off after a long run (where Seamus had cursed Dean's family in every manner possible and seven that weren't), Seamus had found it hard to breathe. He'd never before paid attention to the expanse of skin above Dean's waistline: dark, wet, and perfect. The sun didn't make it gleam so much as highlight the muscles underneath as Dean twisted to pull the wet, clinging fabric from his skin. No, there weren't angels singing, and no, it wasn't quite a religious experience, but Seamus had never really been one to pay much attention in church anyway.  
  
It has to be the sweat: the beads on Dean's upper lip, the sheen of moisture covering him with an inexplicable glow. The rounded droplets promise miles and miles of slippery, grasp-filled yearning and the panting, clawing opposite of precision.  
  
So, now it's his fucking secret.  
  
Because what exactly would he say if Dean caught his glances, could read his traitorous thoughts, or witnessed the inept fumblings every night when Seamus took hold of himself? "Er, yeah, a stiffie, y'know how that is... care to move a bit to the right and lift your shirt?"  
  
With a frustrated sigh, Seamus tugs down his shorts and tosses them aside, reaching for a towel and mentally tallying the risks of having a wank in the shower. When he straightens up, he sees Dean shudder briefly and shake his head, then glance back at Seamus with a guilty look. Seamus sucks his breath because, oh god--   
  
He _knows_ that look.   
  
He knows it with every fibre that makes him male (not to mention several others that tend toward other directions) and remembers innumerable moments where Dean might have been watching him, too. Oh god, what if--  
  
"Hey," Seamus says, taking a deep breath and summoning the reserve strength of his Irish ancestors (knowing he'll go to hell if this is how he chooses to use his Irish courage).  
  
"Hey," Dean says quietly, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.  
  
Seamus inclines his head toward the shower and tries to find the right words, but only succeeds in murmuring, "You wanna-- "  
  
Dean grins widely, then scrubs his fingers over the edges of his lips, pulling the grin into something smaller but no less striking. He rises, then walks toward the shower and pulls the curtain over. Seamus can feel steam rising though the water isn't on, and his nerves are on Giant-sized tenterhooks until Dean finally speaks,  
  
"Yeah, alright, then. Best to conserve water anyway."

::

 

 

[will be finished in the next part...]


	2. [part 2]

**The Opposite of Precision, part 2** **  
seamus/dean, rated R, ~900 words**

 

::

  
  
  
Moments pass as they stand outside the shower, as still as if the temperature had dropped rapidly and flash-froze the water on their skin. Seamus wants to move, more than anything he wants to pull Dean into the shower and watch the water fall in a clear rush over his skin.  
  
It's mesmerizing, this staring. Neither of them has been this quiet in the twelve years they've known each other and it's glaringly obvious right now that their minds are working overtime. Seamus can see Dean's irises (the dark brown of hidden yearning) flit over his face, pausing over some parts, skimming over others. When their eyes catch again, they hold. They hold so powerfully that Seamus can feel the pull start deep down inside him until he can't help but step forward.  
  
Dean steps forward at the same time, desire cascades around them in a downpour and they're kissing fiercely, as though they hadn't been miles apart a moment before. Their teeth clank once and Seamus pulls back in horror, covering his mouth. Dean laughs: a deep, full laugh that's as substantial as a meal and about a hundred times better. Seamus grins back, feeling something catch fire deep in his belly, then steps backward into the cool smoothness of the shower stall. It chills his feet but he wills the bottom of his feet to warm back against it -- he's not going to give in to anything right now but the feel of Dean against him, because... because suddenly this is as much a need as it is inevitable and the realization doesn't scare him.   
  
Not in the least.  
  
His eyes finally focus outward again and he sees Dean watching him with an amused grin.   
  
"You back out of your head now, then?"   
  
Before Seamus can nod, Dean turns the water on, then presses him bodily against the tiled wall and kisses him deliberately. Seamus can feel his breath escape in slow pants of realized longing and he's ready to give up just about everything if Dean could just keep kissing him like this for the next forty-three _billion_ years.  
  
Kissing this way doesn't take thought. It takes lips and tongue and a slight pressure of teeth. It takes movement and weight and hands touching hips in ways that aren't tentative. There's no finesse needed here, Seamus realises, just a slow surrender.  
  
Years ago Seamus would never have thought that kissing could serve him well because a sloppy blow job against the wall of a club was the height of a good score, but...  
  
Oh, how things have changed.  
  
Sliding his lips against Dean's while the water falls over them feels perfectly natural and terribly illicit all at once. The water feels like liquid heaven and Seamus isn't stopping. It might not be possible to come just from kissing, but he's pretty damn close.  
  
Water slides into their mouths and Seamus can feel the slip-slick slide of Dean's tongue in his mouth all the way down to his knees. He's in the middle of wondering just how long he can keep kissing Dean before he faints happily from lack of oxygen when Dean shifts slightly, moves their bodies into line and Seamus feels the full length of Dean's dick pressed, _hard_ , against his.  
  
"Dean," he breathes, stopping for a moment in surprise.  
  
Dean grins sort of crookedly at him before he rocks his hips slowly. Seamus gasps, his eyelids fluttering open, then shut as he tries to remember if he's felt this way before, if anything has actually felt better. He reaches down, wraps his hand around both of their dicks and squeezes.  
  
Spiked wet eyelashes surround Dean's eyes as he glances down at Seamus's hands covering both of them. Seamus can see that his eyes have darkened even further before Dean closes his eyes and throws his head back against the tile, opening his throat for Seamus to taste. Simultaneously, Seamus licks the wet-sweet skin and starts moving his hand around them. Dean moans long and low with his eyes still closed. Seamus can feel the vibrations against his tongue and he's just about lost.  
  
It doesn't take long now; the sound of breathy gasps rise above the rushing water, then sink down inside Seamus, twisting deep inside him and spreading outward.  
  
"God," he gasps aloud. "Dean, I--"  
  
Dean's mouth is half open now and he's not making a sound, but the sight of it is enough. Seamus sees the colours of the water explode into _orangepinkblue_ and his body jerks once as warm waves of bliss shoot through him and explode as he comes all over his hand.  
  
"Oh god," he cries, "godohgod, I... _Dean_."  
  
Dean's as quiet as Seamus is loud, and when Seamus slumps forward, Dean throws a heavy arm over Seamus's back and breathes with him. Seamus has no idea when the water ran cold, and he thinks anyone might have heard them in here, but it really, really doesn't matter.  
  
Not when he pulls back and Dean smiles at him like _that_.  
  
"Y'know, the shower at my flat is quite a bit larger than this one," Dean says with a grin.  
  
"Is it?" Seamus says, shutting off the water and grappling outside the curtain for a towel. He smiles back at Dean and every worry in his life melts away for the moment.   
  
"I reckon we'd best check it out, then, aye?"

::

  
  
_fin_  
  
~thank you so much for reading! ♥


End file.
